Chapter 18 · Chapter 18

The quiet settled over the wing like heavy silk, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hiss of the charcoal glowing within the brass Mabkhara near the wall. A thin ribbon of blue Oud rose straight toward the vaulted ceiling before curling into the warm stillness.

On the low console lay the folded sheet the cousin had brought—an itemized declaration drafted by the family committee, stamped with the formal seals of men who believed ink could undo what had already been sealed behind a locked bolt. It sat there like an intruder, pale against the dark grain of the timber.

Majed did not rush. He crossed the floor with the measured stride of someone whose ground had never once shifted beneath him. His white Thobe fell without a crease, the cuff links catching the filtered Riyadh sun that slanted through the high lattice.

He picked up the paper between two fingers.